


A High-Functioning Sociopath

by EliseHart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Psychopaths, Blood, F/M, Gore, M/M, Murder, Post Reichenbach, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Serial Killers, Sexual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliseHart/pseuds/EliseHart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sit on a couch in their Scotland flat, gazing upon a bloody body.  Sherlock recalls the events that led him to this fate starting with his return after The Reichenbach Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Return

**Author's Note:**

> All events recorded are things that actual psychopaths have done in the past. From pranks to murder, it's all true.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns to 221B and greets a suspecting John Watson. He also plays a little "puppy" prank on Lestrade.

“I’d like to propose a toast,” a darkly-amused voice announces, holding his glass up to his flatmate, sitting next to him on a 10-year-old used couch the pair found lying on the side of the road almost a month before.

John Watson looks at him with an intrigued face, sighs, and holds up his glass as well, “Alright, whatever you say.”

Sherlock, slightly annoyed by his tone, continues, “A toast. To ridding the world of stupidity.”

The doctor half laughs and knocks his glass against Sherlock’s. “Amen to that.”

“I swear I have never met such an idiotic buffoon in my entire life,” the detective mumbles as he takes a sip from his glass.

“You say that every time, Sherlock. Though it does seem like they get worse and worse,” John says, lifting the arm of a very dead and bloody James Coggs with the toe of his shoe, letting it drop to the floor with a thud. The gesture takes Sherlock back a year; to the reunion of the detective and his blogger.

* * *

John Watson didn’t seem surprised at all when Sherlock entered 221B Baker Street for the first time in three years. The doctor felt that the former consulting detective was too full of himself to actually succeed in committing suicide and treated the man as if he had never left. “The one question I have, though,” he inquired, “is why? Why fake your death for three years? What are you trying to get away from? I know Moriarty was thorough with his scheme, but I didn’t think it was bad enough to make you give up your life in London.”

Sherlock laughed at John, “Oh, you are a wonder, Dr. Watson. How you can manage to be so intelligent yet so incredibly stupid has always been such a mystery to me.”

Slightly irritated by Sherlock’s reaction but at the same time happy to have heard his degrading remarks for the first time in so long, John slumped in his chair. To keep himself from smiling, he bit the inside of his cheek and nodded, “Alright, then. What _really_ happened?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the doctor, “I already told you, I invented Moriarty and came up with all the cases. Richard Brook was an actor hired by me to play a part.”

John’s facial expression changed from amused to disbelieving when his friend stayed composed, “You’re not serious.”

“On the contrary. The job was getting too easy, I got bored. So, I offered to pay his family money to keep them getting by for the rest of their lives if he shot himself on top of St. Bart’s. Oh, and I did have him threaten you; I needed to throw suspicion on someone else.”

Fuming, John yelled, “So you would have let him blow me up!”

“You’re too smart for your own good.” The detective smiled, “Would you like an insincere apology?”

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No. Just, never mind.” He let his hand fall to the arm rest, breathing loudly through his nose, “Who else knows you’re here?”

“No one. Though, I’m off to tell Lestrade right now.”

“Right,” John sighed. “I’ll order some take away for when you get back. You look half starved; it’s bloody awful.”

Sherlock headed for the door, grabbing his coat and putting it on. Just before he walked outside, he stopped to ask, “You’re not going to turn me in?”

“No. That’s far less exciting than letting you stay here. You’d be surprised how boring it is to not have you around.”

Turning so John wouldn’t see, Sherlock smirked as he closed the door behind him.

***

Over the past three years, Lestrade had been demoted and promoted back to Detective Inspector twice. The first time was because of Sherlock, obviously, and the second was because Sally Donavon got his job and quit when she realized how incompetent she really was at solving cases; even with a team of her own. It had been a month since she left the force and Lestrade felt like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders from not having to hear her nagging him constantly.

As he was enjoying a moment of peace, his phone rang and he answered, “Hullo, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

A soft voice replied, “Hi, my name is Melissa Collins.  I'm calling from the veterinary clinic across the street.”

“Ah, yes! What do you need, Miss Collins?” Lestrade spun his chair around to glance out of his blinded window towards the building in question. On the other end of the line, he could hear the distant sound of dogs barking and howling wildly.

“There’s a man here causing trouble with the dogs in the kennel. I’ve tried to get him to leave but he won’t listen and keeps shouting obscenities and harassing the dogs. He promised me that if I asked you to come down here personally, he would leave on your arrival.”

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his forehead, thinking that this was just another twisted drunk trying to get attention. “Yeah, of course; I’ll be over there in five minutes.”

He kept his word and walked in the door just before the time he promised he would, ambushed by the barking of dogs and yells sounding too familiar to be real. _No, that can’t be him._ The overwhelmed inspector rushed to the back kennel where Miss Collins stood wearing a white-collared blouse and tan slacks. “Thank God you’re here,” she gasped. “I’m being driven simply mad by all the noise! Every time the dogs calm down, he gets them riled up all over again!” The top three buttons on her blouse were undone and she was obviously trying to show this fact off.

But Lestrade wasn’t paying attention to her or her shirt. His eyes stayed focused on the man in question, sitting cross-legged inside a cage reserved for larger dogs like Great Danes. The man looked up, thoroughly amused, “Hello, inspector. I recall a time where you were so frustrated with me in our earlier years that you insisted I had nowhere to go but to the dogs! Surprisingly, you were right for once. Hopefully this makes up for all the lost time. Happy belated Christmas.”

The man stood as if made of stone with his mouth hanging open in shock, “Sherlock? Is that you?”

Sherlock raised his hands up and let them fall again, “The one and only.” The tall, pale man carelessly opened his cage, crawled out---joints popping as he stretched himself---and waltzed out of the clinic, patting Lestrade on the shoulder as he passed by, “Afternoon, Greg.”

Lestrade stood, dumbfounded, running his hand through his hair. Melissa looked at him, completely confused and disappointed that she hadn’t made as good of an effect on the inspector as she would have liked. “I’m sorry, you know him?”

He managed to nod, “Yeah; that was bloody Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter; it's mostly just an introduction, the others are longer. Feel free to leave feedback! Any criticism is appreciated.


	2. Molly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly Hooper discovers that Sherlock has returned. She makes the mistake of visiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you love Molly, I suggest not reading this.  
> This chapter is based off of a series of murders by a psychopath who stabbed his victims in the face. If I remember correctly, he was also quite sexual with them, as well. After they were killed, he would burn their bodies in his stove.  
> DISCLAIMER: A lot of people on Tumblr have been getting very upset by the fact I referred to this as a crack!ship and that I tagged it as Sherlolly, so I'd like to clear this up on here as I did on my Tumblr. 
> 
> I called it a crack!ship because it's Sherlolly but technically it isn't Sherlolly because Sherlock is just using her. So it's a crack!ship to the Sherlolly ship. Do you see what I mean?
> 
> I called it Sherlolly because Sherlock and Molly have sex in the fiction. Yes, it means nothing to Sherlock and everything to Molly, but that doesn't make it NOT Sherlolly. Just like I said before, it just makes it a crack! to the actual ship.
> 
> I don't ship Sherlolly, I'm a Johnlock shipper. But future chapters will show that this is also not a Johnlock fanfiction. Everything is a crack! on their ships. I think Sherlolly is adorable and it's a nice idea. Just because I don't ship it doesn't mean that I'm going to bash it. That is not what I was trying to accomplish here.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Back in the flat, sipping his glass of scotch, Sherlock glances over at John who is finally drinking to the toast.  His face has a hardened expression as usual.  Sherlock hasn’t seen his softer and more caring side in months; not since they moved out of 221B.  He almost misses having an entertaining and nearly ordinary person around.  But he slowly was learning that John was capable of so much more.

“Sherlock?”

The man snaps out of his trance, “Hm?”

“Sherlock, you’ve been staring.  Is there something wrong with my face?”

His jaw clenches.  If John noticed, he doesn’t say so.  “No, you’re fine.  I was just thinking about something.”  John blinks at him and his eyes soften, only slightly.  Sherlock sees it, and feels like he’d breathed in a lung-full of fresh air, “John, take care of Coggs, if you please.”

He sets his glass down on an end table and watches as the ex-doctor gets up and drags the body into the kitchen.  Sherlock frowns, remembering the first time John showed signs of this kind of behavior.

* * *

After a few days of John being more than okay with Sherlock’s admitting to being a murderer, the detective started to become suspicous.  John had always had this darker desire for danger but he was obviously hiding some other feeling; or the lack of it.  Sherlock spent hours pondering on this until he over-stressed his mind.  Groaning, he rubbed his eyes, estimating that John wouldn’t be home for at least an hour, if he had no problems with the shopping this time.

Just then, the phone rang.  Sherlock knew it was either Lestrade begging for help on a simple case or Molly wanting to talk from hearing of his return from the inspector; who Sherlock deduced had been spending nights with the woman more often than not.  He picked up, “Hullo?”

“Hey!  Wow, Greg was telling the truth, wasn’t he?”

 _Molly._   “Yes.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic!  It’s so nice hearing your voice again, Sherlock.”

Cue eye-roll.  “Yes.”

“I, actually, was just thinking about you.”

“Really.”

“Yeah...I’m sorry, that’s stupid.”

Suddenly, Sherlock came up with a scenario to help him discover a little more about the doctor than he had before and a grin formed on his face.  “Oh, no no.  You're fine.  Actually, you should stop by for a little catch-up-chat.”

On the other end of the phone, Sherlock heard something shatter.  _Teacup_.  “Yes, of course!” She stammered.  “I’ll be over in a half an hour!”

Faking a smile in his voice, he answered, “Great, see you then,” and hung up before Molly got the chance to say goodbye.  She had never made a really good impression on Sherlock, leaning more towards ‘easy to manipulate’.  He wanted to test this theory when she arrived, not caring how it hurt her, while gaining more knowledge about Watson; though that depended on timing more than anything.  Five minutes after she had been expected, Molly finally showed up, apologizing an unnecessary amount of times for her tardiness.  Sherlock tried his best not to insult her repeatedly, but she was making it exponentially difficult.  Focusing his attention on being polite and gentlemanly for his experiment, he offered softly, “Here, let me take your coat for you,” gently pulling the fabric off of her shoulders.

Underneath, she was wearing a silk, red, cocktail dress with a dangerously low V-neck.  Her lipstick shade matched it perfectly and looked ravishing with Molly’s flowing, brown curls which poured off onto her chest; covering up whether or not this dress had straps but also having an obvious opening to show off her cleavage.  Sherlock knew she had feelings for him, but he hadn’t estimated that she had missed and wanted him _that_ badly; especially while she was having affair with Lestrade.  He determined it would take him less than five minutes to get her to take it off.  “Are you going somewhere special after this?”  He asked, faking obliviousness.

Molly blushed and smiled shyly, “Well, I was hoping that you could tell me.”

Sherlock looked up, pretended to analyze her as he had already done, and replied, “No, you’re not going anywhere after this.”  His soothing voice melted her insides as he walked closer to her.  Faintly playing ‘hard to get’, Molly backed into the wall as he grew closer, obviously wanted him to pin her to it.  Sherlock stopped walking when his face was mere inches away from hers and continued, “You surprise me, Molly.”

“W-what?”  She stammered; a deep blush started to spread over her face like a soft blanket.

“I never thought you’d want to ruin such a lovely dress.  My guess is you want me to be gentle with you.  But why such a striking red?  You want me to hunger for you; you want to be lavished, don’t you?”  He leaned in so his lips just barely grazed her ear and whispered, “What do you want, Molly Hooper?”

The poor woman’s breathing had grown quick and shallow, trying and failing to keep herself calm.  “You,” she managed to choke out.  “Whatever you want, I don’t care.”

Sherlock smiled at her desperation but made it look less condescending than he would have on any other occasion.  “Very well,” he hummed, kissing her ear lobe, “Your wish is my command.”  It was incredibly cheesy, but she fell for it as he kissed her lips viciously.  Surprisingly, Molly returned it with enough force to bruise Sherlock’s lip.  He smirked, pressing his tongue to her smeared-lipstick lips, which she parted in allowance.

Their tongues wrestled as Sherlock’s hands massaged down her body until they reached the hem of her dress.  He slipped his long fingers underneath the fabric and slid them to the back of her thighs, hoisting her up to lock her legs around his waist. Molly, thoroughly turned on by his strength, frantically unbuttoned and unzipped his pants and slid her hand inside, massaging his erection.  Sherlock moaned into the kiss and pulled back, planting small nips and bites down to Mollly’s neck where he left an enormous bruise.

Molly bit back a gasp as she pulled his erection out of his pants.  Sherlock was way ahead of her, pulling down her panties slightly and pushing them to the side to have better access to her entrance. He could feel her trembling and said out of courtesy, “I hope you know I don’t have a condom.”

She simply nodded, still breathless from their kiss, and replied, “It’s fine, I’m on the pills.”  Without hesitation, Sherlock thrust inside of her.  Molly winced and sighed as he pulled out and back in.  “Don’t stop.  Please,” she begged.

Sherlock readily complied, thrusting in and out of the mortician until she was moaning in ecstasy.  Just before she climaxed, Sherlock released inside of her, cursing loudly.  He rode out his orgasm until they relaxed and pulled out of Molly carefully, setting her back down on the ground.  Sherlock tucked himself back in his pants and said the worst thing he could have to the tired woman, “Thanks.”

Previously having a lazy smile printed on her face, Molly shot him a hurt expression and angrily questioned, “'Thanks'? Is that it, then?”

The detective had walked to the kitchen to make some tea and looked up at her like the situation was obvious.  “Um, yes?”

Molly’s cheeks burned red in fury as she stormed next to him, “Did that mean nothing to you?!”

Smiling, completely condescendingly this time, Sherlock replied, “Honestly, Molly.  No man would have refused someone so incredibly willing.  Really, I enjoyed myself.  Thank you for your services.”

Her jaw dropped as Sherlock simply poured himself a mug of tea and took a sip.  Tears started to swell in her eyes, “I can’t believe you...”  He rolled his eyes.  “Why do you always say such horrible things?”

Always wanting to have the last word, he replied, “Oh, another question you’ll be asking yourself later is why you had sex with me in the first place.”  Molly couldn’t bare another word and started to sob uncontrollably.  “For god’s sake, be an adult for one minute.”  When she refused to listen, Sherlock sighed, growing increasingly irritated with her, and slipped a knife into his hand without her noticing; she had her hands coving her eyes.  “Molly?”

“Leave me alone!”

“Molly.”  His voice was soft again and her cried grew quieter.  “Molly, look at me, okay?  I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.”  Molly didn't notice the insincerity in his voice and with a little more coaxing, she put her hands down and looked at Sherlock with a puffy, red face that matched her dress.  But he felt she was missing something; some more color to add.  Without warning, he stabbed the knife straight through her left eye, hitting the bone socket with the handle.  The only noise she made was a gasp before she fell with a thump and bled out into the cracks in the floorboards.

***

About ten minutes later, John walked into the flat with groceries; Sherlock sat in his thinking position, “Hello, John.”

The doctor nodded to him as he walked into the kitchen to put the new food away.  “I got some more milk and some---Jesus Christ.  Sherlock, is that Molly?”

The murderer grabbed his violin and began plucking at the strings, “What of it?”

John looked at him and then down at the bloody woman drying on the floor.  “Let me guess,” he stated, “She wanted to shag, you hurt her, she got upset and wouldn’t shut up, and you stabbed her in the eye.”

Stunned by John’s calm attitude, Sherlock turned to him curiously, “How can you tell?”

“Well, her outfit is obviously suggestive; she has sex hair along with semen drying on the inside of her thighs; her remaining eye is red and tears are dried on her face; and there’s a kitchen knife sticking out of her eye socket.  Honestly, if it weren’t for the clothes, I would have thought she was a rape victim.”

Smiling, Sherlock silently applauded his friend, plucking at the strings of his violin again.  “Good.”  _Time to see what he’ll do_.  “Now, I need you to cut out the eatable parts and save them in the fridge.  Pick one to cook and make dinner.  I’ll take care of whatever is left over and  handle all the cleaning.”  Somewhere during his ordering, Sherlock had started watching John’s every move intently.  But the doctor simply shrugged, intrigued by the idea, and ripped the steak knife out of Molly’s head with a crunch.

After many minutes of nothing but the sound of popping flesh, tendons, and dripping blood, John finished with the body and had Molly’s liver cooking on the stove.  Sherlock jumped from his seat, thoroughly astounded-but pleased-with what he had witnessed, and pinned John up against the counter. “Oh no,” John smirked, “Now you’re going to stab me, too.”

“You’ve been most impressive, don’t ruin it by talking.  I’ve noticed something in you that I’ve been trying to figure out since I’ve returned.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.  You’ve always been open about your desire for danger.  But there’s something else.  You’re not the emotional, kind, and considerate doctor you’re letting everyone believe you are.”  John’s smirk changed to a frown.  “In fact, I don’t think you feel anything at all.  The law is so...constricting.  Isn’t it?”  Sherlock pressed John up against the counter tighter than could have been deemed comfortable.  He looked down at the liver and back at John’s blank expression, “What happened while I was gone?”

John looked down at what was left of Molly’s mutilated body, “Nothing happened.  Nothing at all.  That’s just it, though.  Without you, life had no thrill or danger.  But this,” John sighed, pointing at the corpse, “This is thrilling; this is dangerous.”

Sherlock released his grip and walked back into the sitting room, disappointed with John's answer.   _That was incredibly more boring than what I imagined_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment, any and all criticism is appreciated.


	3. Suspicions Arise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are living happily in 221B, at least until Mrs. Hudson gets a little too irritating for them to handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a reminder, I'd like to say that these stories are based off of actual murders committed by psychopaths in the past. One psychopath went to live in many different apartments (or flats) and would get his landlady to trust him before killing her. In real life, he would rape her corpse but I decided against having that in my story; there's only so much I can handle.
> 
> Also, I really love all these characters. So please don't mistake the fact that I'm killing them all off to mean that I hate them. I adore them and they are beautiful people, but psychopaths are psychopaths.
> 
> FUN FACT: Psychopaths are actually capable of feeling a "liking" of one or two people in their lives. Something along the lines of not feeling completely superior to them, caring for their welfare, and loyalty for the most part. But it is a casual liking, nothing more.

The smell of sizzling meat rouses Sherlock from the deep corners of his memory. He looks towards the kitchen, seeing John cooking some part of Mr. Coggs. _Probably the heart; he seems to favor that._ An almost disappointment clouds his mind. He never thought this much on the past before, but now that he has, he misses the days where John didn’t cut up bodies unless it was for a surgery; when Sherlock’s secret was safe and no one knew his true nature; when John looked at him with the caring and loyalty of a friend rather than the emotionless glare of a required partnership.

The man in question walks casually into the sitting room and stands before Sherlock, “Come on. Dinner is covered and cooking. We have about a half an hour before it’s done.”

Sherlock sighs. _A half an hour is too long._ “I’d rather sit and think, if you don’t mind.”

“What is there to think about? You’re not a consulting detective anymore so there’s no case to solve; no knows you’re here unless you’re killing them; and you already know me inside and out. There’s nothing left to think on or deduce. Come.”  As John finishes his speech, he turns and heads for Sherlock’s bedroom.

But that is the former detective’s problem; he already knows everything about John. Life with him was infinitely less boring when there was a mystery behind it. He almost wishes that he could delete every memory of Dr. John Watson, but something inside of him begs him to hold onto that life.

Forcing himself off the couch, Sherlock drags his feet as he enters his bedroom. John is lying on the bed; naked and expectant. “Took you long enough,” he sneers.

With his signature eye-roll, Sherlock undresses himself and the two men have violent sex; tearing and ripping at each other’s skin until they are dripping with blood in at least ten places each. When they cum, John lifts himself off the bed and walks out without a word. Sherlock lays there in the darkness, estimating he has fifteen minutes before dinner is ready, and thinks back to the circumstance that led to this type of relationship; which really means nothing to either men. 

* * *

 

A week after Molly’s murder, Lestrade showed his face at 221B frequently for council. They hadn’t found her yet and he was worrying that they never would. Sherlock had been giving him fake clues to ward off suspicion while John sat back in silence; wondering if Lestrade’s concern reached far beyond that of friendship.

“Alright. Thanks for your help, Sherlock,” he would say. “I’ll be back if we find anything else.” The detective would nod and pick up his violin to play a melancholy tune as Lestrade would leave the flat.

One day, Sherlock was preparing clues to pin the crime on some drunk who had annoyed him the day before when Mrs. Hudson stormed into the flat, “Sherlock! What’s all this business about Molly?!”

John snapped a look at his psychotic flatmate. “You didn’t tell her she went missing?”

“It wasn’t necessary,” Sherlock stated blankly.

“Not necessary?!” Mrs. Hudson fumed.

John had never seen the landlady so angry with Sherlock before and decided to defend her, “Molly was Mrs. Hudson’s friend, Sherlock. She has a right to know!”  Sherlock looked up at John just as he snapped, “I think that’s _bloody_ necessary!”

Instead of taking the doctor seriously, Sherlock smirked. It was amusing to him to watch John go on pretending. He took in a lung-full of air, glancing quickly at the fireplace, and apologized to Mrs. Hudson. John noticed the glace and remembered watching Sherlock drag pieces of Molly’s corpse to a freshly made fire and drop them in one by one until the mortician was nothing but ash and bits of bone.

Shortly after Mrs. Hudson accepted Sherlock’s apology, she started nagging him about the mess and condition of the flat. “Look at this! Ripping my wallpaper? Dust and papers everywhere! And—Oh! Did you singe my rug?!” Irritably, the old woman went around the whole flat, pointing out mess after mess until Sherlock couldn’t handle it anymore.

He glared at John with a face that screamed, ‘I want to kill her. NOW.’

John, fully annoyed with Mrs. Hudson’s ongoing complaints, sighed and nodded, signaling for Sherlock to hurry up and get it over with. Conveniently, Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, complaining about the body parts in the fridge (ironically, she was unaware that those parts belonged to Molly Hooper) when Sherlock grabbed a chef’s knife and stabbed her in the back; just below her left shoulder blade and to the left of her spinal cord.

Unable to breathe properly with the metal blade invading her lung, the woman made short little gasps in her shock. Sherlock placed a strong hand on her right shoulder and whispered in her ear, “My apologies, Mrs. Hudson. But you really don’t know when to shut up.” Holding tightly onto her shoulder, he yanked the knife out of her back, causing blood to pour profusely from the wound.

Mrs. Hudson slumped onto the floor with tears running down her face. In a last attempt for help, she called, “John,” in a cracking voice, barely above a whisper. The doctor got up from his seat, walked over, and kneeled by the dying woman. “John. Help me,” she choked.

Horrified, she watched as John smiled, asking Sherlock for the knife, and reassured her with a twisted lie, “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Hudson. You’re going to be fine.” Her tears flowed from wide eyes as he stabbed her in the stomach, hissing, “Say hello to Molly for us.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows approvingly as she died and hummed, “Nice touch.” John shrugged, leaving the knife inside of her, and returned to his seat.

***

The next day, John went down to the police station and reported that Mrs. Hudson had gone out to do some shopping the day before and never returned. Lestrade ran his hand through his hair, “Jesus. Do you think it’s another serial killer on the loose?”

John stared at him, trying to look hurt, “What makes you think she’s dead?”

“Molly hasn’t turned up in over a week. No ransom note; no reason. Usually by this time, there’s little hope of them being alive.” His eyes started to glisten. “And if Mrs. Hudson is gone now, too, it could be that whoever is doing this might be kidnapping their victims; keeping them for a while; and then killing them to find a new one.”  John shifted his feet uncomfortably. “Do you think it was Moriarty?”

The doctor’s face changed, looking confused as to the mention of the fake criminal.  It took him a moment to remember that Sherlock would not have told the chief of police that he had actually hired Richard Brook to act the part of Jim Moriarty.  “Why would you think that?”

“Well, the two disappearances are people who are close to Sherlock. He might be getting revenge for his return.”

“Moriarty shot himself, Greg,” John insisted.

“Yes,” Lestrade replied, “But Sherlock faked falling off of a building with live witnesses. James Moriarty could certainly fake a bullet wound.”

John sighed and turned to leave, “I’ll ask Sherlock if he suspects anything.”

The inspector nodded as John headed back to 221B to tell Sherlock the news. The detective looked up, initially intrigued by Lestrade’s idea, but then tensed up in a realization. “It’s a trap.”

“What?”

“He’s suspicious of me. He used Moriarty to cover it up.” John pinched the bridge of his nose as Sherlock jumped up and rushed to the fireplace, “We have to hurry and finish burning what is left before Lestrade comes in. Thank you for telling me.”

John nodded, “Sure. Do you need help?”

“No. I need you to get rid of any evidence that you might know about this. Possibly move out for a few days, telling Lestrade that I wouldn’t let you back inside after you talked to him. Even better, stay with him and play stupid for a little while.”

Curious, John asked, “Why are you taking the fall for this?”

“Because you can bail me out when they arrest me. But we’re going to need to find a new flat, preferably out of the country. Can you handle that, as well?” With a sigh, John agreed and headed back to the police station to tell Lestrade he needed to stay with him for a little while. Sherlock threw the last piece of his landlady in the fire and waited.

***

That night, John and Lestrade were relaxing in his sitting room and discussing the two missing women.  John spoke of strange behavior and said he suspected Sherlock to be involved and that there was a high possibility of murder. Lestrade groaned with his head in his hands, “I can’t believe I’m going to be arresting him again.”  The doctor looked over at him and had a thought; there was no reason he should have to let Sherlock get arrested, especially since it would cost a fortune to bail him out. He patted Lestrade on the back and offered him a cup of tea. The inspector shook his head, “Nah, I have a bottle of wine in the cupboard. It would be great if you could just bring that.”

John nodded and got up to retrieve the bottle, pulling his gun out of the back of his pants to make sure it was loaded. Confirming that it was, he slipped it back in; grabbed two glasses and the bottle of twelve-year-old wine; and walked back to Lestrade, setting the glasses on the coffee table and filling each halfway with the purple liquid. Lestrade stood up, grabbing his glass, and downed it in one gulp. John ignored his own, pulling out his gun and pressing it up to his friend’s temple before the man could react. Lestrade froze. “Sorry, Greg, “John insincerely hummed, “I wasn’t going to do this, but I don’t feel like bailing Sherlock out of jail. Money’s tight; you understand.”

Lestrade swallowed and shakily reasoned, “John, just put the gun down, and we’ll talk this over. Think about what you’re doing.”

He cocked his head to one side, his lips pressed in a flat line, and replied, “Already did,” before firing the shot.

***

At about 9PM, Sherlock heard footsteps on the stairs. For a moment he thought it was Lestrade coming to arrest him, but he recognized the sound to belonging to John. The detective shot up from his seat, “What are you doing here?”

Breathless, John ignored his question, “I’d say we have two hours before the police show up with a warrant of arrest, so I suggest you grab all your essentials and we leave as soon as possible.”

Sherlock walked closer to him, “Did you do what I asked?”

“And a little more. I got us a flat in Scotland while Lestrade was working. Then I didn’t want to waste my money on bail and decided to just shoot him instead.”

Attempting to speak then stopping himself, Sherlock found the words to ask, “You killed Lestrade?”

“Yep.”

“What’d you do with the body?”

John rolled his eyes, “I left it there! Sherlock, we’re wasting time. Either you come with me or you stay behind, I honestly don’t give a damn. But I’m going.”

Before John could take a step into his bedroom to collect his own things, Sherlock grabbed the doctor and pinned him up against the wall by his shoulders. John groaned from the sharp pain in his shoulder blades, but Sherlock didn’t release him. “What are you?”

John smirked, “I thought that was easy. I’m you, only better in every aspect.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quivered in anger, “Better? No, I highly doubt it.”  A furious fire burned in John’s eyes and he lunged at Sherlock, clamping his teeth on the detective’s lip and bit down until blood started to flow. Sherlock gasped and ripped away from him, gripping John’s neck with his hand and squeezing hard enough to leave bruises. A low growl escaped his swollen lips, “Do you really want to play this game?”

John responded by digging his nails into Sherlock’s hand and tearing down, taking a few bloody layers of skin with him. Sherlock’s grip loosened, leaving John the opportunity to punch him in the chest and tackle him to the floor. Coughing from the pain, Sherlock watched as John unbuckled his belt and slipped out of his pants, “I’ll fucking show you who’s better.”

With widened eyes, the detective locked his legs around John’s and flipped him on his back so Sherlock was now in John’s former position, pulling down his slacks. “We’ll see about that,” he sneered.

The two men went on like this for over thirty minutes, taking turns pinning each other down and showing their superiority. When both of them were spent, coated in numerous bodily fluids, they decided that whenever they murdered anyone, they would have a fight for dominance to see who turned out to be the better of the two. It was primitive and unfulfilling, but it became like routine in their lives and Sherlock often found himself wondering if either one of them would ever win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please feel free to leave comments or feedback for me to look through. Any and all criticism is appreciated!


	4. The End of a Partnership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a conclusion to the story, Sherlock finishes with all his flashbacks and realizes that John isn't someone he enjoys anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As my research tells me, there was once two psychopaths that went about killing anyone that annoyed them. I decided to use this because I thought it fit Sherlock's personality quite well, including my own version of John's personality also.

Two knocks sound on Sherlock’s bedroom door.

            Finally pulled away from the stressful memories, he breathes an irritated sigh. _‘Two knocks for food.  One knock for police,’_ a faint voice echoes in his mind.  Sherlock recalled back when they first moved into their new apartment in Scotland that he had made a list of rules for him and John to keep while living together, if they continued to do so:

  1.  **Must work together to end stupidity; meaning that if one gets caught in the act, the other must take the fall as well.  Equal share of anything gained from the experience.  Participation is mandatory.**
  2. **Waste nothing.  Whatever is useful off of the body; keep it.  This includes spare change, IDs, credit cards, and eatable organs.**
  3. **After each kill, complete any ritual that keeps yourself in check.  This includes personal rituals and partner rituals.**
  4. **If anything is not used, burn it or dispose of it with the body however both parties agree is best.  Participation is mandatory.**
  5. **Both parties must try their best to not be irritable to the other.  Comity is necessary.**



            Not feeling hungry, the man forces himself out of bed to get dressed and slithers out into the kitchen.  John is already preparing his plate, “Hurry up and eat so we can take care of the body.”

            Sherlock scowls at his words, disgusted at the fact that the John Watson he met would never behave this way; which was mildly ironic since this was normal behavior for the former-detective.  “Sorry, not hungry.”

            For first time in months, John gives Sherlock a genuinely confused look.  He knows the man is never hungry and doesn’t eat unless his life depends on it, but the first meal after a kill was more like a ritual than a meal.  A way to have one-last revenge on stupidity; almost as if teasing, ‘Hahah, I killed you and now I’m gonna eat you,’ in a childish-singsong way.  “Alright, what’s wrong with you?”

            Sherlock’s intent glare attempts to penetrate deep into John’s soul, only finding disappointment; there is not much else to find.  He shakes his head, “Nothing, just save some for later or something.”

            “No, you made the rules.  Whatever isn’t finished is burned.”  John wants to pry the answer out of his partner by giving him no other option than to fess up.  It works since Sherlock becomes more and more agitated by every word John utters.  “Tell me,” the ex-doctor insists.  Without a word, Sherlock walks back to his room.  His “friend” follows and finds him taking a duffle-bag out from under his bed and filling it with clothes.  “Sherlock,” he coughs. “What are you doing?”

            Slightly amused, but mostly annoyed, Sherlock breathes, “Don’t ask obvious questions, John; especially ones that you already know the answer to.  It makes you look more dim-witted than you already are.”  He notices a certain rage starting to build in John’s eyes and takes a breath before continuing, “I’m leaving, if you really couldn’t tell.”

            John, incredibly offended by Sherlock’s condescending remarks, balls his hands into fists and asks, “Why,” in an almost growling voice.  He recited Rule #5 in his head over and over, wondering why “the other party” isn’t fulfilling his end of the deal.  Perhaps because he is preparing to leave and figures he has nothing to lose, and perhaps because there are things that he was previously holding in that he simply needed to let out.  Either way, John feels if Sherlock doesn’t follow the rules, then he won’t as well.

            “Because, as you said earlier, there is nothing left to figure out.  John Watson is no longer a mystery.  He is simply the shell of a man he once was; living out his life day to day, not particularly caring where he ends up tomorrow.  You are, in a word, boring.”  Sherlock doesn’t regret the words coming out of his mouth, but he frowns at them.  He never thought he’d actually say or believe that John is a boring human and not worth being around.

            Interestingly enough, John’s mind can’t handle this much insult coming from someone who constantly insults everyone he comes in contact with.  This feeling confuses John, as it has to be very similar to “hurt”.  He waits for an apology; even an insincere one would suffice.  But he doesn’t receive it.  It nearly drives him insane as he storms into the kitchen, swearing and screaming any form of insult that pops into his head.

            Sherlock glides out of his room, feeling lighter with the weight not on his chest any longer.  He wants to ignore John as he has his tantrum, but instead sets his bag on the old, red couch.  Pools of James Cogg’s blood smear the floor and soak into Sherlock’s shoes.  He estimates that John will have a hell of a time covering up the stains.  _The rules no longer apply_.  “John, you’re taking this _very_ immaturely.”  The fuming man knocks over everything on the kitchen counter with his arm as a response, breathing heavily through his nose.  _Common way for him to show anger_.  Sighing, the retired detective turns away, picks up his duffle-bag, and starts to walk out of the flat.  “Goodbye, John.”

            That simple phrase pushes John over the edge.  The last time Sherlock had said it, John watched him jump off a building.  At first he had been distraught over the loss of his friend, but then came to realize that someone so incredibly self-centered would have very little odds of actually succeeding in killing himself.  This time, on the other hand, he knows this goodbye would be permanent and he refuses to let it happen.

            Before Sherlock could get a foot out of the door, John grabs a knife from off the floor, runs up behind him, and stabs him in the back of his throat.  “You.  Are.  NOT.  Leaving.  Me.”

            Sherlock’s eyes widen as he tries to take a gasp of air, choking on his own blood.  John grimaces as he drags the knife down his former partner’s back, allowing blood to flow in a steady stream and several organs to slip out in slashed bits.

            A groan passes from Sherlock’s lips as he falls to the floor, a metallic taste dripping from his mouth instead of words.  He watches through fading eyes as John, his dearest John who had become so warped and twisted over this past year, kneels down before him.  _This is my fault._

Eyes shining with amusement, John stares at the dying man.  “I win,” is all he says before walking back to the kitchen to grab his proper, carving knife.

            When he returns, Sherlock latches hold of John’s leg with all the strength he has left.  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, unable to say more.  His words were barely intelligible with his gargling, liquid-coated voice.  But John doesn’t understand what he means, and he never will.  _I did this to you.  I’m truly sorry, Dr. John Watson._

            John leans down and chimes, “Your mind has always been incredible.  I bet it’s delicious,” as he ends a brilliant man’s life with a knife piercing through his temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you have enjoyed my fanfiction! Please feel free to leave comments or questions for me! Any and all criticism is encouraged.


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